


next to you is where i call home

by pumpkinless



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Body Hair, Brunch, Butch Shiro, F/F, Gardens & Gardening, Graphic Depictions of Tomato Eating, Mutual Pining, Vegan Shiro, Vibrators, accidental d/s dynamics, clumsy seduction, sports bras everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26967559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinless/pseuds/pumpkinless
Summary: Shiro is a first time gardener with too many tomatoes taking over her life. Keith won't stop sunbathing half-naked next to the garden.And they were roommates.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 170
Collections: Femsheith Exchange 2020





	next to you is where i call home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bootyshortskeef](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bootyshortskeef/gifts).



> wowww long time no fic! hope this makes up for the wait lmao
> 
> a gift for bootyshortskeef in the femsheith exchange! your prompts gave me about a million ideas and i hope you'll forgive the late posting, the nsfw hit my brain like a truck at the very last moment and i couldn't help myself, as usual <3
> 
> OH and editing to add a disclaimer here that the author has tried their best but doesn't know a lot about gardening so please forgive me!

Keith is sunbathing again.

Shiro grits her teeth, turning resolutely away from the sight of her housemate sprawled out on one of their deck chairs in just her underwear. She doesn't even have the grace to put on a swimsuit: not that a bikini would be that different in terms of skin coverage, but it would at least spare Shiro the smoldering sight of Keith stepping out into the backyard, Kosmo close on her heels, and twisting her shirt off over her head, tossing it lazily to the side. Pants and socks are never very far behind but Shiro usually manages to tear her gaze away by that point.

Keith shirtless in a sports bra is something Shiro can live with. Shiro works at a gym and is a professional; she sees a dozen women a day in sports bras and it never bothers or distracts her.

But this is Keith lounging in just her underwear—not even the small pair of shorts she wears out running, but actual underwear. It isn’t sexy, or at least it’s not the kind that’s  _ meant  _ to be sexy. No one should look that good in a pair of gray cotton briefs that can be bought in packs of eight at any store with a clothing department. It’s that confusing time of day that straddles late afternoon and early evening but the midsummer sun is still high in the sky, illuminating Keith so perfectly it hurts to see her.

It's just some skin, Shiro reminds herself as she marches over to her patch of dirt, spade and gloves in hand. Shiro has skin, too, and so does every other woman in the world.

Gardening was a lot more relaxing before Keith decided to embrace the lizard half of her brain that likes to sprawl out in bright patches of sunlight, smelling of sunscreen and occasionally distracting Shiro enough that she invested in a better pair of gloves to keep from hurting herself. The hot sun makes Keith sweat but the way she sweats is perfect, a sheen over her skin that grows more unbearable to exist nearby each day.

"It's supposed to rain tonight," Keith calls as Shiro picks up the garden hose.

"I know," she answers without turning around. Shiro has a very difficult time tearing her gaze away from Keith’s thighs once she starts looking. "It's so hot out today, though."

Keith hums in response, unconcerned. She knows even less about gardening than Shiro does, though she was the one at Shiro's side with a shovel in her hands when they first turned the earth to create a proper vegetable plot. 

The garden started on the suggestion of Shiro’s physical therapist, which was excitedly and repeatedly encouraged by her mental health therapist, and so at twenty-nine years old, Shiro is learning how to be a gardener. It’s going well, she thinks. The spring was spent raising a crop of radishes and butter lettuce, aided by a lot of frantic internet searches and Keith’s regular assurances that the garden looked just fine because homemade produce was  _ supposed _ to grow weirdly. Tomato, zucchini, and bell pepper season is upon them now, and Shiro still can’t believe how excited she is to taste her first homegrown tomato.

This has been good for her. 

A loud, impatient tapping interrupts her thoughts. “I’ve got it,” Keith says, unfolding herself from her chair to open the sliding glass door for Kosmo to escape, and Shiro’s eyes follow her. Thank the stars for the invention of sunglasses. “Hey, you want anything to drink?”

“Uh, sure,” Shiro says, turning her head away. Keith’s ass in gray cotton briefs. Fuck. “Whatever you get is fine.”

Keith steps back inside the house with a wave of her hand. Kosmo noses around the perimeter of the yard, searching suspiciously for the rabbit that somehow keeps finding its way past the solid wall of plank fencing meant to keep critters out and prying eyes away. Shiro’s a nature lover who enjoys calmly watching animals of all sorts play in the yard, but their rabbit visitor is getting on her last nerve because it drives Kosmo insane every morning at 4 a.m. His barking is decidedly not calm.

Shiro fills Kosmo’s water bowl with the hose and then turns it off, plants sufficiently watered. She pulls up a couple of tiny weeds that have found their way into the row of pepper plants.

“You think the tomatoes will be ready soon?” Keith’s sudden appearance surprises her.

"Um," Shiro says. She's trying hard to pretend she didn't just whirl around like a startled cat, and even harder to make it look like her sunglasses-covered gaze doesn't want to go straight to the outline of Keith’s nipples underneath the thin cotton of her bra. It must be cold in the house. "I have no idea," Shiro tacks on, probably too late. "Some of them look like they should be ripe soon. They’re big enough for it."

"Some people like fried green tomatoes," Keith ponders. She pushes a glass of water into Shiro's hand and takes a sip out of her own. "Are those the same kind of tomatoes? Just before they turn red?"

Shiro shrugs because she hasn't eaten a green tomato in her life and because Keith is just so . . . so  _ much  _ when she's standing this close.

Keith hums to herself and then walks away to sprawl once again on her favored chair. Shiro does a lap of the garden perimeter to distract herself, hunting once again for invading weeds, yellowed leaves, and ripe produce. She finds nothing but her eyes can’t help stray again to Keith. 

It’s rare for both of them to have a full day off at the same time, and even rarer that it’s a lazy Sunday. Between Shiro’s work at the gym and Keith’s job at the car mechanic, neither of them have very consistent schedules. They spent the morning lounging in the living room in pajamas, half-heartedly complaining about the obnoxious judges on some reality competition show that had been playing when Keith turned the TV on. Shiro doesn’t remember the show but burned into her mind is the image of Keith with her fingers deep in a bowl of strawberries she bought at a local farm stand yesterday, stained red with juice. Keith has no idea what she looks like when she sticks her fingers in her mouth, but Shiro may never forget it.

The afternoon was dedicated to little things around the house like laundry and brushing Kosmo. When she finally gave up on the never-ending task of defurring Kosmo, Keith had piled all his loose hair into a sculpture as big as Shiro’s cat, Blueberry, and then taken a picture of them loafing next to each other. Blueberry had not been impressed.

Now Shiro is thinking ahead to dinner. She doesn’t feel ambitious tonight, not willing to cook and heat up the kitchen when the temperature outside is already so close to boiling. Maybe they’ll do the same thing they did last night: a big bowl of fresh rice piled high with a mixture of vegetables from Shiro’s garden and things they’ve bought at the store. A big tub of diced watermelon between them because Shiro had lost her mind while shopping and bought a gigantic twenty-nine-pound watermelon that seems impossible for just the two of them to polish off. Dismantling it into bite-sized pieces had been the work of an afternoon.

As if on cue, Keith calls out to her. “Dinner soon?”

Shiro doesn’t allow her breath to catch in her throat. “Yeah,” she answers.

Keith rolls to her feet and bounces a few times on her toes like she’s ready to take off in a sprint across the yard. “I’ll get the rice cooker started,” Keith says with determination. It’s not the first time she’s virtually read Shiro’s mind.

Keith and Shiro are about as platonically domestic as it is possible to be. They’re best friends—childhood best friends, the kind that go so far back that Shiro can scarcely remember life without Keith at her back. The three years of age between them could never stand up to the fierce way Keith held their relationship together with both hands, always reaching out to follow Shiro. The hardest, emptiest time had been when Shiro had moved to Arizona for college, but of course, Keith had followed her even then, as soon as she could. Now, Keith is Shiro’s roommate, her best friend, the closest thing Blueberry the cat has to a second parent, and, like some kind of ridiculous lesbian cliche, the probably-unrequited love of Shiro’s entire life.

Shiro hasn’t a clue what she would do without her.

That night, Keith puts dinner on the table and Shiro cleans up after them both. It’s a wordless exchange borne of familiarity. 

After the dishes are done, Shiro wanders back into the living room in time to see Keith off for her regular evening run. Kosmo steps eagerly into his reflective harness and Shiro mostly looks away when Keith bends over to strap him in and clip on his leash. Bright red running shorts and a different sports bra, this one made of sleek moisture-wicking material. The sky is overcast now, tiny raindrops speckling the ground outside, but Keith loves to feel the rain on her face.

“Have a good run,” Shiro says uselessly. The smile Keith sends over her shoulder is as bright as the sun. “Call me if it starts to thunder.”

“I will,” Keith promises. Kosmo boofs once and then they’re out the door.

Shiro looks guiltily at the time on her phone. Keith will be gone for at least thirty minutes, even up to an hour if she’s feeling limber and strong and the weather isn’t too bad. She’s got the whole house to herself.

She shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t.

Instead of listening to sense, Shiro locks Blueberry out of her bedroom, throws her pants on the floor, and lets herself  _ want. _

***

This summer, time passing is measured in produce harvested and done away with in some form or another. Keith and Shiro manage to eat most of it, but occasionally the vegetables pile up past what they can manage; this is part of the process of gardening, Shiro has learned. What seems like a reasonable amount of produce during the planning of a garden can exceed expectations. Zucchini in particular is proving a pest. It’s an easy enough vegetable to grow but Shiro doesn’t think she’s going to be planting it next year. She and Keith are both honestly sick of it.

At the gym, though, zucchinis disappear as quickly as she can offer them to friends and coworkers. Turns out that Shiro is more satisfied watching others take them than she is facing down the prospect of another zucchini-centric dinner. Allura delightedly tucks three into the mesh pocket of her gym bag after Shiro’s boot camp class, exclaiming happily over them.

“I’ll have more soon if you want them,” Shiro offers. “Seriously, I’ll bring a couple next week.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Allura says. Her eyes sparkle as she tucks an errant curl of hair behind her ear; it springs right back into place as soon as she lets go of it. “Text me when, I’ll be sure to bring something—pesto, perhaps. It’s only fair.”

“You don’t have to,” Shiro says.

“Please, let me,” Allura implores. “I have more basil than I know what to do with, these days. The extra plant was a mistake.”

Shiro sympathizes far too much with that statement. “I’ll bring a few peppers too, then,” Shiro promises. “We’ve got too much of—well, everything.”

“Excellent.” Allura claps her hands together. “It’s a deal!”

Shiro laughs and holds out her prosthesis for a half-serious handshake to seal the deal, and Allura pumps her arm enthusiastically before she heads out the door.

It isn’t until twenty minutes later, when Shiro is preparing for her next class, that she registers that Allura had been shirtless that whole conversation, her electric blue sports bra as eye-catching as her toned stomach, but Shiro’s gaze hadn’t strayed once. She hadn’t even been tempted.

One day, Shiro will stop being so surprised that Keith is the only person to hold her attention.

***

A brutal heatwave builds over the next week. By the time the sun rises on Wednesday morning, it’s sweltering and the temperature is already climbing towards a three-digit number Shiro can’t stomach the thought of. The owner of the gym calls to say that the old air conditioner has finally broken down and the building is closed as a result, leaving her with a surprise day off and little indication of when she’ll be going back to work. Keith goes to the garage in the morning but comes home during the hottest part of the afternoon with an annoyed explanation about Kolivan sending her home early and a brand new plastic kiddie pool in the bed of her pick up truck.

“For Kosmo,” she explains, sounding slightly embarrassed, but Shiro is already mentally calculating how much of her body she could submerge in a six foot wide tub. 

Probably most of it, if she contorts her legs the right way.

While Keith fills the pool with the garden hose, Shiro slips inside and pulls the blender out to make smoothies using the massive collection of frozen bananas their freezer seems to spawn spontaneously when no one is looking. This turns out to be a mistake because it means Shiro has to sit across the kiddie pool from Keith in too-short bike shorts and a red sports bra while she wraps her lips around the silicone straw in her drink. It’s awful, but Shiro has already stuck her feet in the water and it feels too good to leave. At least she has sunglasses to hide the direction of her gaze.

Keith makes a kissy noise at Kosmo to call him over from where he’s sprawled out in the shade. His head lifts, one ear perked up, but he immediately flops back down with a loud sigh.

“He’s got a hard life,” Shiro says.

“Don’t validate him,” Keith argues. “He’s gonna love the pool.”

But Kosmo, in true contrarian fashion, has no interest in the pool or in movement generally, and he stays flopped on his side for the next half hour while Shiro drinks her smoothie and tries not to look at Keith.

Ignoring Keith becomes very difficult very quickly when she decides it’s time to put her whole body in the pool.

“Oh my god,” she groans. “Oh my god, Shiro.”

Keith needs to not say Shiro’s name like that when her long, strong legs are so casually on display. She props her feet up on the edge of the tub so she can get her hair wet and Shiro can’t look away from the water droplets tracing their way through the dark hair on Keith’s legs. Stars. Keith’s long evening runs are a blessing, and Shiro is so fucking gay for the things it does to her legs. 

Shiro closes her eyes.

“I’m—water,” Shiro says, lurching out of her seat. “You thirsty?”

Keith shakes her head and then promptly rolls over to stick her face in the water. Shiro gives herself exactly one glance at Keith’s ass and then tears herself away—she will  _ not _ be weird about her best friend swimming. Or, kind of swimming. Twenty-eight is old enough to control her damn self. 

Kosmo eagerly pops up from the grass when Shiro opens the back door, retreating into the slightly cooler house. The air conditioning is on, but it’s almost impossible to truly combat the oppressive heat. Blueberry is sprawled on the living room floor in a patch of sunlight, her belly up and not a care in the world that she’s the only creature in this house who enjoys the concept of  _ warmth  _ anymore. Shiro leans down to scratch her under the chin on her way to the kitchen.

She empties the whole ice tray into two glasses and then tops them off with water as cold as the tap will run.

Shiro drags her feet as she leaves the house again, uncertain of what she’s going to find when she returns to the edge of the pool. Keith can’t possibly have more layers to strip off, but at this point, Shiro doesn’t think she could reasonably maintain surprise if Keith just ended up in their yard  _ naked. _

She’s not, thankfully.

_ Thankfully, _ Shiro tells herself sternly.

“Come on,” Keith says. She slaps the water next to her. “Plenty of room, even for giants.”

“I’m not that tall,” Shiro says, rolling her eyes. But the banter is well worn with age and Keith’s grin is sparkling as she accepts a glass of water.

“Are too.”

Just to spite Keith, Shiro refuses to take off any clothing before sitting down in the pool. Shiro hasn’t put sunscreen on her shoulders, anyway.

“Fuck, that feels good,” she says, sighing as her legs sink into the cold water. Not even a heatwave can combat the stubbornly icy temperature of the garden hose and she’s never been so grateful for it.

Shiro can’t stretch out completely with Keith in the pool with her, but just having the lower half of her body immersed is more than enough. They sit facing each other, legs splayed out side by side so Keith’s toes brush against Shiro’s hip occasionally when she moves. It’s distracting. Shiro forces herself to stare off to the side, ostensibly cataloging her garden instead of the dusting of freckles on Keith’s tanned shoulders.

She remembers winter so fondly. Keith wears shirts in the winter and it is much easier to handle.

An explosive sigh bursts out of Keith and she sinks deeper into the water, her knees bending and rising up to make room for her.

“Tomatoes will be ready soon,” Shiro says to distract them both.

Keith sits up. “Really?”

“We can pick some this weekend.”

“Mm.” Keith decides that she needs to be facing the garden too, and for some reason, turning around in the pool involves a lot of wriggling and squirming and just . . . general touching. Calves brushing, a brief moment of Keith’s foot pressed to the outside of Shiro’s thigh, and then shoulders bumping together, Keith leaning in close because she has no reason to believe this is undoing Shiro. It is far, far too hot out to justify any form of touching, but here they are. The thought of pushing Keith away feels weirder than accepting her closeness.

Shiro switches the half-empty glass of water from her left hand to her right, stubbornly focusing on the smooth bend of her mechanical joints as they curl around the cup. She does not jump when Keith lays her head, wet hair and all, on Shiro’s previously dry shoulder and hums happily under her breath.

“You smell good,” Keith murmurs. “What’s your secret?”

“Sweat,” Shiro says. Her mouth is dry.

“Liar. Did you use perfume? Cologne?”

“I don’t own either.”

“Hm.”

Keith curls closer and their thighs align, pressed firmly together, and this time neither one of them moves away. 

“New sunscreen?” Keith asks.

“I—no. Same one you use.”

Silence, briefly. Then: “Maybe it’s just you, then. I like it.”

***

Shiro spends the rest of the week playing  _ I like it _ over and over again in her mind. It’s fine. This is fine.

(It’s the most fine at night when Shiro is alone in her bed, hands busy and body thrumming with heat as she pictures all the different ways Keith might say those same three words. All the things Shiro could do to her to make her say them. Shiro’s no slouch in the imagination department, but the possibilities feel  _ endless.)  _

***

Keith is a heathen who bites into bright red tomatoes like they are sweet peaches, licking her lips to chase the juice she can't stop from dripping down her chin. Sometimes Shiro can't stand to look at her.

"That is not how you eat a tomato," Shiro criticizes.

Keith raises an eyebrow at her and finishes chewing. "Says who?”

"Says anyone who's ever eaten a tomato before," Shiro argues. Desire sings in her belly when Keith rubs the back of her wrist over her wet mouth.

"Trust me," Keith says. She extends the tomato to Shiro, bitten side facing out. "It's so good, Shiro."

Of course, Shiro is powerless against her, so she takes the fruit and fits her teeth alongside the imprint of Keith's mouth. She bites through the skin and flavor bursts into her mouth, tasting like summer warmth and a mellow tartness that might just taste better than any tomato she's had in her life. Shiro's eyes close of their own accord as she savors it, her chin just as messy as Keith's but ignoring it in favor of the  _ pride  _ she feels. She made this fruit, coaxed it from a tiny seed buried just under the soil into something beautiful and useful.

“Told you so.”

Keith’s smugness should be irritating.

Blueberry winds through Shiro’s legs, begging to be picked up, so Shiro acquiesces and hoists the cat up into her arms. The purring starts immediately.

“More?” Keith asks, offering the tomato.

“I don’t have enough hands.”

But Keith just comes closer, hand extended, and she holds the fruit up to Shiro’s mouth for her to take a bite. Shiro makes the mistake of not breaking eye contact as she closes the last bit of distance; the corner of her mouth just brushes the edge of Keith’s thumb as she bites down, and it rocks Shiro to the core.

“Still the wrong way to eat tomatoes,” she maintains. 

“Only if you’re bad at it,” Keith argues. “Which you are, because you got tomato guts all over your cat. Gross.”

Shiro looks down and there are, indeed, tomato guts splattered across poor Blueberry’s ruff, not that Blueberry is at all aware of it. She sighs at herself and reaches for the kitchen towel to wipe it off. “I’m a disaster,” Shiro mutters as she picks out a slimy seed with her fingers.

Keith raises an eyebrow. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

***

The second big tomato harvest is split between three reusable grocery bags and packed straight into the trunk of Shiro’s car because she and Keith are still dealing with the first tomato harvest. There is no more room for tomatoes in their kitchen. She drops the first bag off on Krolia’s porch and takes the other halfway across town to Hunk’s bakery, where she exchanges tomatoes for a selection of miniature vegan cheesecakes from Romelle, who is managing the front of the house today. 

“It’s a new recipe we’re working on,” Romelle says proudly. “Nut-free, completely vegan. They’re fall themed, too!”

“We’ll let you know what we think,” Shiro answers, the  _ we  _ slipping off her tongue seamlessly. She and Keith have been a matched set among their friends for years.

The final collection of tomatoes goes to Shiro’s mom. Shiro parks her car in front of her mom’s house—not the house she grew up in, but a cozy two-bedroom townhouse tucked at the end of a shady cul-de-sac. She knocks twice on the front door before using her key to avoid another loving but lengthy lecture about how this will always be Shiro’s home no matter how old she gets, and how dare she make her poor mother walk all the way to the door? 

Shiro trades the bag of tomatoes for a kiss on the cheek, a glass of iced tea, and a ten minute lecture about sunscreen for her troubles.

“I really don’t need more sunscreen,” Shiro says, refusing to take the bottle her mom is trying to shove into her hands. “You gave me some last time I was here  _ and  _ the time before that.”

“Then why are your ears red?” her mom argues. “Put it on before you go back outside.”

So Shiro sighs and rubs sunscreen on her ears and cheeks to appease the most stubborn woman on the planet, and when she gets back in her car half an hour later, somehow the bottle of sunscreen has found its way into her things. Good grief.

“And tell your brother I expect to see you all for dinner next week,” Mom says when they’re standing at the front door. “Don’t you dare come without Keith.”

“Yes, mom,” Shiro says. Family dinner is one of her favorite things, and not only because of the home-cooked meal.

She gives her mom a big hug, promises to drop off any more surplus vegetables, and finally gets in her car. It weighs on Shiro as she drives away that Keith is as much expected at family dinner as Shiro’s fraternal twin brother and his actual wife. Keith is not Shiro’s wife. Keith is—well, Keith is a permanent fixture in Shiro’s life, in Shiro’s home, and it shouldn’t bother her that her family just wants to be on good terms with someone as important to Shiro as Keith is. After all, Shiro is a frequent guest at Krolia’s dinner table as well.

Actually, now that Shiro thinks about it, she’s pretty sure her mom and Keith’s mom are . . . if not friends, at least in regular contact. They get coffee sometimes and presumably do more than just gossip about their daughters.

She texts Keith when she gets home:  _ are our moms friends? _

Twenty minutes later, Keith sends:  _ duh _

***

The tomatoes multiply beyond all reasonable measure very quickly. 

This is worse than the zucchinis. Shiro has so grossly overestimated the number of tomato plants required for a household of two. Her trusted gardening blogs all say that she should be overjoyed with such a massive harvest and should turn to canning as a solution for storing all the tomatoes, but Shiro doesn’t want to be stuck staring down at a pantry full of a billion jars of soggy tomatoes in five months. It’s just a matter of personal preference.

Shiro dumps her most recent harvest on the kitchen counter with a sigh. Four ripe tomatoes, one zucchini, a small bunch of green onions, and two red peppers. It all looks beautiful, yes, absolutely, but Shiro has already eaten one tomato today for breakfast and she doesn’t know if she can handle eating two more for dinner. 

Variety is supposed to be the spice of life, but ten tomatoes sitting on the kitchen counter is not variety in the least.

“Wow,” Keith says observantly.

“This is out of control,” Shiro says desperately. “I don’t know where they all come from, I swear I didn’t plant enough tomato plants to have this kind of problem.”

“You know,” Keith muses, “we could always throw a tomato party to get rid of all the tomatoes.”

"A tomato party," Shiro repeats. It’s . . . not the worst idea she’s ever heard.

Keith shrugs one shoulder. She's soon to head out to the garage and her shoulders and collarbones are bared by the loose white tank top she's wearing. "It's been a while since we've had people over," Keith explains. "And they can help eat the tomatoes."

Shiro looks down at the sea of red fruit covering their kitchen island. "Doesn't Lance hate tomatoes?"

"Lance is extra invited," Keith says, sharp amusement curling through her voice.

***

The tomato party turns into a Saturday morning tomato brunch to fit in around everyone's work schedules. Shiro does her best to rebrand it just as  _ brunch  _ but Keith is far too amused by saying  _ tomato brunch _ out loud as she researches shakshuka recipes in preparation.

“Should we bake our own bread?” Keith asks. She sits at the island counter with her beat up laptop, perched on a bar height chair with her bare feet propped up on the rung, toes wiggling every time she reads something she likes. Not that Shiro has been watching her enough to notice. “We could make baguettes. Bruschetta.”

Shiro is pretty sure Keith said that word wrong, but not sure enough to correct her. “I don’t know anything about baking,” she says instead. “Is that my sweatshirt?”

“Yeah,” Keith answers, unconcerned.

Shiro looks at a tomato sitting innocently next to the toaster and contemplates crushing it in her bare first.

“Anything else you think we should have?” Keith asks. “I’ve got shakshuka, bruschetta . . . what about upside-down tomato corn cake?”

“Sounds like baking.”

"True." 

Over the next hour, they painstakingly manage to cobble together a menu fit to feed seven people. They’re both decent cooks capable of feeding themselves, but Shiro’s idea of party food is ordering pizza to go with store-bought chips and salsa. However, she’s also adept at buying premade food and internet searches, and  _ vegan brunch ideas _ yields enough ideas to keep her fed for the next several months. Maybe when the stakes are lower Shiro will revisit her stance on baking. Unlimited blueberry muffins would be ideal.

Friday night, Keith and Shiro go to the grocery store together. This is not unusual: they often shop together and attend the local farmer’s market with religious observance each week, even if it means dragging Keith out of bed at 6 a.m. before her morning shift. 

They have a brief standoff in the refrigeration section over hummus: Shiro has it in her head that since this is a party, they should get the more expensive brand. Keith is quick to point out that they’ll probably have leftovers and there’s no reason to be stuck with something they only sort of like when they could just get their favorite standby.

Shiro can’t argue with her logic.

When they get home, Shiro gently bullies Keith into doing just the  _ tiniest _ little bit of meal prep. Mostly, they chop onions and peel garlic cloves just to make waking up tomorrow to cook a full spread of breakfast just that little bit easier, and then Shiro sends Keith out for her nightly run with Kosmo while she does the dishes. They’re both in bed by ten and Shiro sleeps hard that night.

***

Shiro wakes up second, which is normal because Kosmo almost always wakes Keith at the crack of dawn to be let out. She pulls on dark jeans and a red short-sleeve button-up shirt that’s almost the exact color of the tomatoes picked from her garden. It feels appropriately festive and, most importantly, probably won’t show any tomato sauce colored stains once they start cooking.

She wanders out into the kitchen to find Keith already sipping her coffee, Shiro’s teapot next to her on the counter.

“Wondered if I was gonna be waking you up today,” Keith teases as she sets the electric kettle to boil. Shiro grumbles at her in return, not willing to deal with conversation until she has a cup of steaming green tea nestled in her palms. Keith, who knows her better than anyone else, is aware that Shiro is like this in the morning and doesn’t press any further.

The morning passes in surprising calm for two people who don’t have a habit of feeding large groups of people. Shiro’s mild obsession with order (control issues, Keith calls it, but she’s wrong) has them on a pre-planned cooking schedule instead of trying to guess day-of when everything is supposed to happen and who is in charge of doing it. There’s a mild hiccup with the crepe batter when Keith accidentally adds dairy butter instead of vegan butter to the blender, but they shrug it off and Shiro makes a fully vegan half batch to share with Pidge and Allura. She has no doubt the rest of her friends will happily indulge in the butter.

Before long, people start arriving. Keith slips away from tending the simmering shakshuka to change out of her sleep clothes while Shiro welcomes Hunk and Romelle in. 

Hunk is kind enough to show up with the fixings for bloody Marys, made from a premade mix because no one has any clue how to turn a whole tomato into a cocktail. He brandishes celery like a weapon and gets to work immediately, plopping the first drink down in Shiro's hands, enthusiastically thanking her for the invitation and declaring her garden an amazing success. 

“Growing season isn’t over yet,” Shiro sighs, but she toasts Hunk in thanks. “You’ll have more tomatoes in your hands before you know it.”

The others straggle in next. Allura and Lance are already arguing as they step over the threshold; Lance is skeptical about Allura’s claim that the cinnamon rolls in her hands will make even the staunchest non-vegan happy. It’s a familiar, bickering argument, and Shiro tunes them out as soon as she says hello and accepts orange juice and champagne from Lance. Pidge brings a bag of avocados, not yet ripe enough for eating, and when questioned, they admit that they forgot about the whole affair until twenty minutes ago and avocados just seemed like the “brunchiest” thing at the store. Keith, who is a secret avocado fiend, quietly and happily tucks the treasure into the crisper drawer.

They have to drag out a couple of spare folding chairs to fit everyone around the table, but once they do, brunch goes off without a hitch. The plate of bruschetta Shiro had painstakingly arranged this morning is decimated even before the meal begins, but since everyone has come to her moaning about how good the tomatoes are, it is an acceptable compromise.

The second round of drinks carries them out into the backyard. Romelle and Lance torture Kosmo by throwing his favored frisbee to each other instead of him. Shiro gives Pidge and Hunk a brief tour of the garden while Keith and Allura settle themselves in the deck chairs for early afternoon sunbathing—completely clothed, thankfully, not that Shiro doesn’t consider the other possibilities.

Shiro is . . . she’s proud of herself. Proud of the fruits of her labor and proud that she is sharing it with her closest friends. Maybe before the end of the summer, Shiro will invite her twin brother and mother over for dinner at this house and she can feed them for a change. Her mom deserves it.

And then there is the tiniest little bit of drama.

Shiro feels good, warm and flushed from the sun and alcohol in equal parts, though the weather is far milder than the recent heatwave. It’s pleasurable to be outside again instead of utter hell.

But it makes her thirsty, of course, so she steps away from the mildly violent game of cornhole (courtesy of Pidge, resident shit-stirrer) to retrieve a glass of water from the kitchen. She pauses to pet Blueberry who is wedged halfway under the couch and does not appreciate being touched when there are strangers in the house. Shiro respects that, and so she moves on. 

“Your advice is  _ shit.” _

The venom in Keith’s voice catches Shiro off guard. The word  _ eavesdropping  _ occurs to her, but she lingers in the shadow of the kitchen entryway, tucked just out of sight against her better nature. Keith and Lance aren’t the best of friends and probably never will be, but Shiro thought they had buried most of the hatchet and weren’t at risk of needing intervention in their arguments anymore.

Shiro’s intentions are good. Not wanting her close friends to fight is far nobler than simple eavesdropping and she’ll tell anyone who asks she just wanted to keep an eye on them. 

“It’s not  _ my _ fault you can’t close the deal,” Lance scoffs. “Did you even do what I told you?”

There’s a loud clunk of someone setting their glass down too hard on the counter—probably Keith, Shiro’s seen her break things that way before. It’s almost endearing. “You said, and I quote, ‘Take off all your clothes and then bam, you got her.’ Bam?” Keith rages, voice almost hushed like she’s trying to keep it down but can’t turn off her anger. “What the fuck, Lance?”

“Huh,” Lance says, sounding genuinely confused. “That didn’t work?”

“No, it didn’t work. It was a horrible idea in the first place and I don’t even know why I listened to you.”

Shiro frowns. Glancing around the empty living room, Shiro tucks herself further into the corner. This is definitely eavesdropping now, no doubt about it, but she has no idea what’s going on and it sounds . . . well, it sounds like Keith is trying to woo someone. Which Shiro is fine with, of course. Her heart isn’t breaking at the thought of Keith having met a cute girl. But it’s strange that Keith hasn’t mentioned anything—less strange that she would go to Lance about it, because as unhelpful as Lance has proven himself to be, Keith has a bad habit of taking his advice. Even if she doesn’t admit to it.

But still. What?

“I mean, I can’t think of why it wouldn’t work,” Lance muses, like he’s uncovered some true mystery of the ages. “Y’know. Boobs, and everything. Don’t lesbians like that?” Keith makes a disgusted noise that Shiro agrees with, and then a third voice inside the kitchen interrupts, startling Shiro.

"Wait, so Lance told you to woo Shiro by taking off your shirt in front of her and you  _ listened?"  _ Pidge asks incredulously. Stubborn silence follows and Shiro's brain turns to static. "You're useless, Lance, anybody could tell you that would never work."

Shiro must have heard that wrong. She’s outside the room, too far away to make out exact words and phrasing, so—Pidge definitely didn’t say her name.

Is Keith wooing Shiro?

Pidge and Lance are still talking, but Shiro can’t hear them over the thought that Keith spent half the summer sunbathing in their backyard in her underwear. It doesn’t quite compute but, yet, all signs point in the same direction, that Keith is trying to get Shiro’s attention by being mostly naked in her presence. Regularly. And, yeah, now that Shiro thinks about it, she’s never come home after work to find Keith already shirtless in the yard with Kosmo. It always,  _ always _ happens when Shiro is tending to her garden, when she’s trapped by necessity in the same place for up to half an hour with nothing to do but survey the grass while she waters her plants.

Nothing to do except, lately, try not to stare at Keith’s abs.

_ Oh my god,  _ Shiro thinks. 

This is the moment all polite consideration goes out the window. Shiro is fully committed to listening in on a private conversation about herself and her romantic interest’s potential romantic interest in  _ Shiro,  _ and there isn’t enough money in the world to tempt her away. It is selfish and she can apologize to Keith later. She forces herself to listen.

"Well, sor- _ ry  _ that my ideas aren't good enough for you losers," Lance whines in that patented way of his.

"Look, Lance," Pidge says in their most diplomatic voice. "Just because you would jump into bed with any woman who took her shirt off and winked at you—"

"Duh," Lance mutters.

"—and maybe that might work if Keith was some random person to Shiro, who are we to say what queer women are into—"

"I hate you both," Keith groans.

"—but you're both missing the crucial fact that Shiro is Keith's best friend and communication is the only thing that's gonna solve this," Pidge finishes loftily. It's good advice, Shiro realizes, but it's such a minor consideration in the context of discovering that Keith is—what, crushing on Shiro? In like with her? Or maybe it's just a momentary interest, or infatuation, or just plain old curiosity about if Shiro's a good kisser and—

"I'm not gonna just  _ tell  _ Shiro I'm in love with her," Keith says scathingly.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

"Because the status quo is working out so well for you already?" Pidge asks. 

Keith sighs, sharp and short. "Fuck you both," she says, but there's no venom in it. "I know you're right, Pidge. About that and about, y'know, listening to Lance."

"Smart," Lance agrees, relatively amicable. “Maybe you should just kiss her. One big smooch and then—”

“Don’t kiss people without permission,” Keith snaps.

“Begone, Lance,” Pidge says. 

Shiro doesn’t stick around to find out if Pidge actually kicked Lance out of the conversation or if they were just joking. It’s hard to tell with any member of the Holt family and she really doesn’t need to get caught lurking outside a conversation in which Keith just confessed a whole lot of personal information.

She collapses on the seat next to Allura, the only person who has not been drawn into the cornhole insanity. Allura raises one perfect eyebrow at her over the rim of her sunglasses.

“Um,” Shiro says. She considers choosing her words carefully and then promptly throws discretion out the window. “I’m not kicking any of you out. But I think I’m gonna go make out with Keith and I’m not sure you’re going to want to be around for whatever happens after that.”

Allura’s jaw drops.

“I overheard her.” Shiro is dazed. “In the kitchen. She told Lance she’s in love with me.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to clear water out of her ears.

“Oh my goodness, Shiro,” Allura says. She claps her hands together and smiles with excitement. “Shiro! I’m so happy for you! Have you told her your feelings in return?”

Shiro shakes her head, still a tad numb. “I think we should probably be alone for that.”

“Of course, absolutely. Give me fifteen minutes and I will have everyone out, don’t you worry about a thing!” Overcome by her excitement, Allura throws her arms around Shiro’s neck and squeezes her in a tight hug. “Act natural,” she murmurs in Shiro’s ear. “And good luck to you both!”

It remains unclear exactly how Allura gets everyone out of the house. Shiro thinks she says goodbye to them all, but mostly she just stews in stupefied, panicking, lesbian distress. 

This could either be the best or worst thing ever. She won’t know until it happens.

They gravitate towards each other in the living room. Blueberry has vacated the couch and is hiding from the world in an unknown place. Shiro’s left hand shakes; she stuffs it in her pocket to hide it. 

Keith is in her favorite pair of jeggings and a loose gray T-shirt of indeterminable origin—maybe it was Shiro’s once, years ago, but neither of them will ever remember. Her hair is loose around her face, desperately in need of a trim to get the mullet back to its full glory. She’s as quiet as she ever is when it’s just the two of them sharing space, but there’s contentment in every line of her lean frame. Shiro is beyond nervous, but just looking at Keith settles the rabbit-fast pace of her heart. She remembers that overheard slice of conversation, the  _ I’m in love with her  _ and  _ don’t kiss people without permission _ and thinks: yeah. Yeah, Shiro can do this. She can take the uncertainty away for them both.

“Hey, Keith?”

“Mm?”

Stars, she’s cute.

“Can I kiss you?”

Keith chokes on air. “. . . What?” she croaks.

Shiro steps closer to Keith, taking in the blush spreading slowly across her cheeks, her perfect lips parted in a hint of shock, a tiny wrinkle of confusion creasing the skin between her eyebrows. Shiro brushes her knuckles against Keith’s chin and watches her  _ shudder. _

It’s even easier to ask the second time. “I’m kind of insanely in love with you,” Shiro whispers. Keith’s eyes widen in shock. “Can I kiss you?” 

“Did—did Lance put you up to this?” Keith asks after a long moment.

Shiro doesn’t even pretend to think it over. “Unlike some people in this room, I have never once taken advice from Lance.” It’s the truth.

“Oh my god.” Keith covers her face with both hands in embarrassment. “Fuck. You heard us talking.”

“I may have eavesdropped,” Shiro admits.

“You—”

“And I hate to say that Lance was right, but you  _ should _ probably just kiss me because I think it will clear up exactly how I feel about you.” She doesn’t mean it as a challenge, but Keith spreads the fingers of one hand just enough that she can peek out at Shiro with one eye. That’s her  _ I have been challenged _ expression and it’s—it’s hot.

“Are you sure?” Keith asks.

Shiro steps closer, gets so close to Keith that the only thing holding them back is Keith’s hands in the way of their lips meeting. “I have been sure,” Shiro says deliberately, “for years.”

Keith’s arms drop, but Shiro doesn’t kiss her. She wants Keith to lift up her head and close the last of the distance between them, wants it to be her choice and her move; all Shiro can do is give her every opportunity to lean in.

And then they’re kissing.

Shiro’s eyes slide shut and she  _ sinks  _ into Keith.

The kiss is chaste and warm and it smells like the sunscreen on Keith’s cheeks. They part for a breath, almost like they feel like they should and not because they want to, and Shiro takes Keith’s face gently in her hands. Keith covers Shiro’s prosthetic hand with her palm in turn.

“Fuck,” Keith whispers. “This isn’t gonna ruin everything, is it?”

Shiro grazes the tip of her nose over Keith’s. “Why would it?” she asks, even though she knows exactly what Keith means. She has the same fear, sometimes.

Keith groans helplessly and she falls back into Shiro’s mouth.

The second kiss is just as soft as the first but it lingers, a slow, syrupy thing that Shiro could learn to live in. She tilts Keith’s face to meet at the perfect angle and Keith follows effortlessly, allowing herself to be guided and her lips urged apart. Shiro doesn’t mean for it to go far—doesn’t mean to make that zing of a spark that springs through them—but then her tongue swipes over Keith’s bottom lip. And their tongues touch. And one of Keith’s hands lands on the back of Shiro’s neck, the other curling right in Shiro’s sleeve.

It’s electric.

Shiro moans into her mouth. She loses the ability to keep count of kisses because these are the kind that never end, only roll endlessly into each other like ceaseless waves crashing on the shore. It just goes on. Keith’s mouth is clumsy like she’s out of practice but she’s so eager at the same time, thrilling at every touch as her short nails scratch gently through the back of Shiro’s buzzed hair. Shiro drags teeth over her bottom lip just to hear her whine.

There’s making out just for the sake of making out, and then there’s this, which feels a lot more like a prelude to something else. And when Keith grabs her ass, shameless and so very welcome because it is definitely that kind of kiss, Shiro remembers herself. 

“Keith, we should—I should take you on a date before this,” Shiro gasps. When did it get so hard to breathe? Keith is stealing her breath right out of her chest. “It’s—”

“Why?” Keith asks. Her mouth drops to the side of Shiro’s neck as her fingers inch their way under the hem of Shiro’s shirt.

“I’ll take you to dinner,” Shiro promises through a heave of breath. She tries to tell her hands to let go of Keith’s waist but they aren’t listening. “Dinner and a movie. T-tonight, we can do it tonight, oh my god.”

Keith makes a very dissatisfied noise and finally steps back, her chin tilted up at a defiant angle. “We had dinner together every night this week,” she argues. “And I watched that terrible robot movie with you last night because you think Megan Fox is hot even though you won’t admit it.”

“I do not think—”

Keith cuts her off with a kiss, and it’s fast becoming Shiro’s favorite way to be interrupted. “Shut the fuck up,” Keith whispers when she’s done trying to suck Shiro’s soul out of her body. “We don’t  _ have  _ to do this, but if the only reason you’re saying no is because you think I need to eat at some fancy Italian restaurant—”

“Keith,” Shiro breathes. She takes Keith’s face in her hands and kisses her, trying to silence her in the same way because Shiro gets it, she does. But Keith, apparently, is not done making her point.

“And I—I hate your taste in movies, anyway, so whatever we would see, I already hate it,” Keith says, which is not a surprise but the way she says it against Shiro’s lips is so utterly different and new. Her fists hold tight to the collar of Shiro’s shirt so she can do her best to shake Shiro despite their difference in size. “And if you let stupid dating traditions get in the way of taking me to your bed right now, Shiro, I swear to fucking—”

Looking at Keith now, fire in her eyes and her mouth blushed red from kisses, Shiro thinks that she, too, has had enough of waiting. Keith is right: they’ve eaten dinner with each other nearly every damn night for years, watched countless movies—they bought a  _ house _ together. 

Maybe the out of order part was always that they weren’t sharing kisses over breakfast or holding hands during movie nights. That Shiro didn’t spend every free afternoon silencing Keith with her mouth just like this, wrapping her hands around the backs of Keith’s thighs and lifting her up,  _ up,  _ ignoring her muffled gasp of shock and walking forwards to press Keith up against the wall, just inches away from the place Shiro stood when she heard Keith confess earlier. Keith’s hands grip Shiro’s shoulders hard as she surges forward into the kiss, ankles locking together behind Shiro’s back like they had planned the whole movement of it together. This is the missing piece;  _ this,  _ not conventional dating, because they’ve already gone and not done the very conventional get together, anyway.

Besides, Shiro has wanted Keith for  _ years. _

“Let me make you dinner after,” Shiro bargains, pulling away from the kiss because she can’t help the frantic churn of her brain reminding Shiro to treat this woman right. Keith rolls her eyes.

“No more dishes today. Take out.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Keith studies her with barely concealed impatience. “Are you done having your crisis yet?”

“This isn’t a crisis.”

Keith’s hand slides around the back of Shiro’s neck, nails digging into her skin briefly as Keith adjusts the distribution of her weight. 

Shiro takes advantage of their position and grinds her hips forward. These ridiculously skin-tight jeggings that Keith loves so much because she hates the feel of denim on her legs—Shiro can’t get the sight of them out of her head, but she truly, genuinely believes they would look better on her bedroom floor. She’s got too much game to say that out loud, but maybe she’ll save the thought for later. Keith might appreciate the joke when it’s not at the risk of ruining the mood.

And as good as up against the wall is, Shiro doesn’t have enough hands to hold Keith up  _ and _ get her bra off. Thankfully, Keith has always been so good at reading her mind.

“You can—can you carry me?” Keith asks. Her eyes are nearly black with desire. “To your bedroom?”

Just to prove the point, Shiro slides her hands down to Keith’s ass—ostensibly to balance her but it doesn’t stop Shiro from appreciating it at the same time, since Keith already beat her to ass grabbing in this relationship—and takes a step back from the wall.

Keith licks her lips and grins. 

The arms around Shiro’s shoulders disappear and then, suddenly, Keith's shirt is on the ground and Shiro's nemesis is right in front of her. That fucking sports bra, the red one with the white elastic band around the bottom, and Shiro wants to tear it in half. She  _ would _ tear it in half if her hands weren’t currently occupied.

“What’s with that look?” Keith asks. She’s breathless; her lips are swollen. Shiro bites her collarbone and then presses her lips just there, closing her eyes. A hand slides into the top of Shiro’s undercut and tugs gently, urging her head up so that Keith can kiss her again.

“I want to fuck you,” Shiro whispers against her mouth.

Keith moans.

“Bedroom,” Keith says when she figures out how to speak again. “Now.”

Shiro can’t argue with her on that.

It’s not the smoothest gait Shiro has ever walked, but she thinks she manages the distance between the living room and her bedroom well, considering her eyes are closed and her lips are occupied with Keith’s. Keith doesn’t complain, just clings tighter with all her limbs. Shiro is going to fuck her against the wall at some point, anything to get herself wrapped up in all of Keith again, but Shiro doesn’t have the patience for that kind of finesse today. 

Blueberry is on the bed when Shiro shoulders the door open. By the time Shiro pushes Keith down onto the bed and climbs over her, the cat is gone.

“Fuck,” Shiro whispers, half to herself as she takes in the sight of Keith on her bed. Her legs are spread and her jeggings rise to just below her navel; above them is a stretch of skin that Shiro is so used to seeing but, somehow, has never touched. She puts her hands on either side of Keith’s waist, swiping her left thumb up and down out of appreciation, and Keith shivers, her dark gaze boring into Shiro. She inches her fingertips below Keith’s waistband and sits back on her heels. “Can I?”

“Yeah.”

Keith’s abs flex as she lifts her legs into the air so that Shiro tug her pants off over her ankles, leaving them inside out and tossing them carelessly to the floor. And then, before her, is the exact picture of her every fantasy for the last several months: the ridiculous front-zip sports bra, the gray cotton briefs that should be the most uninspiring thing Shiro’s ever seen, the freckles on Keith’s shoulders and arms and even on her stomach. Shiro has never seen those before, never gotten close enough to notice, but it only seems right after all the time Keith has spent lounging in the heat. She runs her hand down Keith’s calf just to ground herself in the feeling of the soft, dark hair on her legs. 

“Stop staring,” Keith orders. She sounds embarrassed.

“I thought you kept taking your clothes off because you wanted me to look,” Shiro says, grinning despite herself. “This is finally my chance.”

“You telling me you never checked me out?” Keith asks. Her tone is sharp, the question somewhat facetious because they both know that none of that matters now. But Shiro leans back down over Keith, rests her fingers just under Keith’s chin to nudge her up for a soft, wanting kiss, and then she answers seriously.

“I was always checking you out.” Another kiss, hand wrapped around the curve of Keith’s jaw. “Even when I told myself to stop looking. Especially when I knew I was overwatering my plants.”

“I didn’t even think you had noticed,” Keith confesses. 

Shiro snorts, unable to help herself, because  _ what? _ “How could I not?” she asks with a laugh. “You’re so fucking—god, Keith. You’re so beautiful.” She slides both hands over Keith’s chest, over the bra that might be Shiro’s mortal enemy, and she watches Keith’s eyes go dark.

The next part of their conversation is wordless, almost a challenge, a dare, and then Shiro’s fingers fumble for the zipper of Keith’s bra. She drags it down and watches, spellbound, at the reveal of her breastbone. And then the zipper is undone and she’s bare to Shiro’s gaze. Her nipples are small and brown and already peaked, either from arousal or the air conditioning or  _ something _ , and Shiro is moving to get her mouth on them before she’s even consciously registered the desire.

Keith’s gasp is audible and she arches under the touch. For a moment, Shiro is overwhelmed by just that simple action—she’s always wondered latently what Keith might sound like in a situation like this, and Shiro had always assumed she would be quiet in bed. Keith is physically expressive but not always verbally effusive and it’s . . . it’s something else to hear a whine in her voice when Shiro pulls away from her chest. It makes Shiro’s heart clench and her cunt throb with arousal, and then she’s kissing Keith again, kissing her like there is nothing else in the world for either of them to worry about. And Keith moans into it, moans into Shiro’s mouth like it’s the best thing she’s ever felt.

Fuck. Shiro isn’t going to survive this encounter if Keith is going to sound like  _ that. _

Keith's clever fingers find their way to the collar of Shiro's shirt, and they begin the process of unbuttoning. She's quick about it, clearly hunting for the press of skin on skin, and when she's finally got the shirt open, Keith's hands are right there to fill the void of Shiro's untouched body. Her hands are not tentative but Shiro still shivers as if she's ticklish as they touch her abs. Shiro is also wearing a sports bra, but it’s the pull on over the head kind that’s impossible to take off in a sexy way. Keith seems to realize that as her fingers trace around the lower band of it as if searching for a clasp to undo.

God. If Shiro had known how today would go, she would have worn something much more removable.

And then Keith's mouth slides from Shiro's lips to her neck, and it's like being struck by lightning when she bites down. Shiro moans as Keith licks at the side of her throat, teeth grazing the same spot before she moves down half an inch. It's almost too much but only almost—Shiro tips her head to the side to make sure there's enough room to work with.

She pants out Keith's name, indulging her for a long moment until the arousal building in her stomach is too much to stand. “That’s enough,” Shiro says just when Keith begins attempting to push Shiro's shirt off her shoulders. She grabs Keith’s wrist in her hand, pinning it above her head. Keith’s breath catches in her throat. She looks better than Shiro could have ever imagined, staring up from her place on Shiro’s bed. Naked. Wanting. It’s almost impossible to believe she’s here.

“Shiro, take your clothes off. Thought you were gonna fuck me,” Keith whispers, like if she spoke any louder the moment would snap in half.

Shiro puts Keith’s other hand above her head and then lowers her face to catch Keith’s mouth in a deep kiss, tongue barely finding the chance to sweep over Keith’s lower lip before Keith is opening to her on a moan. It has been, at most, twenty-five minutes that Shiro has held Keith like this, has had the privileged experience of kissing her, and already she knows that this is an addiction. Shifting all her weight to lean on her right elbow, Shiro traces her left hand down from Keith’s wrist, feeling the dip of her collarbones and the hallowed, delicate space of her throat. Keith shivers at the touch.

She bites at Keith’s lower lip, inhales her gasp, presses her tongue against Keith’s. Cataloging every one of her reactions to Shiro’s touch is going to take a very long time because Keith is  _ very  _ expressive.

“If I need to take my clothes off to fuck you properly,” Shiro murmurs when she finds a break in the kiss, “then I am doing something very, very wrong.”

Keith whimpers in the back of her throat. Shiro’s never heard anything like it out of her before.

“Maybe—maybe I just wanna see your tits,” Keith challenges.

Shiro grins at that, can’t help herself. Her hand drops from Keith’s throat to her breast, fingers ghosting a pinch over her nipple in response, and Keith twitches with surprise; her arms jerking like they want to move before she remembers that Shiro put them there. Shiro wouldn’t be upset if she moved them, but it thrills her to know that Keith is choosing to obey the barest hint of an order. 

“Later,” Shiro promises. “You’ve been teasing me for  _ months,  _ Keith. I think I’ve earned a little reward. Or payback.”

“I knew you would be bossy in bed,” Keith complains. She doesn’t sound terribly upset.

“Bossy,” Shiro scoffs. Keith hasn’t seen anything yet. “And I knew you’d be a brat who needs to be put in her place.”

Keith fixes her with an inscrutable look and is silent for long enough that a tendril of doubt curls through Shiro’s arousal, wondering if maybe she’s gone too far. This is so new and they’ve not ever been the kind of friends who spoke explicitly about their sexual preferences—for all Shiro knows, Keith is not into bossy, which . . . could be a problem. Shiro likes to be in charge.

But Keith soothes over the uncertainty with a question. “Where exactly is my place?” she asks finally, her mouth curling up at the corners.

Shiro leans close, presses her forehead against Keith’s, and exhales just out of reach of her mouth, relief and something else. “On my bed,” she whispers, “falling apart under my hands.” She brushes their noses together but draws back when Keith tries to tilt her chin up for a kiss. “I want to find out what makes you scream.”

Keith’s breath shudders out in a sigh. “Not sure I’m a screamer.”

Wrapping herself in confidence, Shiro laughs deep in her throat. “I like a challenge,” she says. “I can get you there. Doesn’t have to be today, I can keep working.”

“We’ve got time,” Keith agrees, and to hear her acknowledge their inevitability so casually makes Shiro burn with happiness as she sucks a mark low on Keith’s throat. Just one mark, just a hint of a bruise on her skin, that’s all she wants. “Fuck, Shiro, I’m—” Keith cuts herself by biting down on her lip, and Shiro rescues it from the grip of her teeth with a kiss.

“You’re what?” Shiro murmurs.

She whimpers. “I’m so wet.  _ Fuck.” _

Shiro groans, unable to stop the noise from punching its way out, and she kisses Keith fiercely in approval. She licks into Keith’s mouth like she can’t imagine doing anything else with her time, dirty and leisurely and consuming, and Keith breaks apart beneath her as she finally loses the battle of wills and wraps her arms around Shiro’s neck. Fingers wind their way into the top of Shiro’s undercut and pleasure zips up Shiro’s spine when Keith tugs at the long pieces of her hair. 

She takes it as permission to slide her hand down Keith’s stomach, slow and firm enough to make her pathway clear, but Keith doesn’t stop her. She just moans, maybe in encouragement, or maybe because she likes the scrape of teeth against her bottom lip.

Shiro doesn’t waste time toying with the waistband of Keith’s underwear. Her fingers slide underneath soft cotton into wiry hair and then down, down into where Keith is hot and wet and straining to spread her legs wider to make room for Shiro between them. She pulls back from the kiss to watch Keith’s face as she pushes her middle finger inside Keith’s cunt, the slide of it so easy. One finger becomes two on the next thrust as Shiro fucks her slowly. Keith pants open-mouthed, her eyes wide like she can’t believe Shiro is the one above her, in her, and Shiro feels her mouth pull into a smirk.

“That good already?” Shiro asks. She pulls back, circling her wet fingers around Keith’s clit, and it earns her a soft moan.

“Fuck, Shiro.” Keith’s brow furrows like she’s adjusting to a wholly new sensation. Shiro kisses her neck once, a tease, but Keith tips her chin back like an offering. It’s impossible to ignore.

Shiro kisses a line right down the middle of Keith's throat, tasting her skin in its most vulnerable form. She pushes her fingers back inside Keith and thrills at the way her breath shudders, but as good as it is, Shiro's already frustrated by the restriction of Keith's underwear. She can't fuck Keith like either of them deserves from this angle, so with an aggravated sigh, Shiro pulls back.

"Why'd you stop?" Keith asks. She frowns as Shiro sits back on her heels but the expression disappears as soon as Shiro pulls off her shirt. "Oh," Keith says, "yeah, okay, good idea."

Shiro laughs and wipes her fingers off on the shirt because who cares about a shirt? She can wash it; she cannot tear herself away from this bed to go get a towel. "Let's get these off you," she offers, hooking her fingers in the waistband of Keith's underwear. 

In an excellent display of core strength, Keith lifts both of her legs straight into the air so that Shiro can tug off her underwear in one smooth motion and toss it carelessly to the floor. Her legs come back down and then Keith half sits up to get her bra the rest of the way off and send it away next.

A filthy smile curls at the edges of Shiro's lips and she doesn't attempt to stop it. "Good girl," she says, and Keith flushes.

"Shut up," Keith mutters.

Shiro laughs and puts her hands on the insides of Keith's thighs, parting her legs as far as they'll go so she can watch her fingers push inside Keith's cunt. She lays the palm of her prosthetic hand on the thatch of hair above her cunt at just the right place to be able to rub her thumb tauntingly over Keith's clit, building to a rhythm that has Keith's hands tearing at the sheets and her mouth caught open. Her eyes are hazy and unfocused, fixed on the ceiling. She looks a million times better than Shiro ever could have imagined.

"I've got an idea," Shiro says conversationally. Keith struggles to focus but she manages to make a tiny questioning noise.

Unfortunately, Shiro's idea means she has to stop touching Keith for a moment, and Keith doesn't seem any happier about it as Shiro pulls away from her. 

"How—how do you want me?" Keith asks, which is a question with a whole wide world of possible answers and not nearly enough time to get through all of them. Shiro scoots back, sitting up against the pillows at her headboard with her legs spread wide to make room for Keith between them. Keith crawls into her lap at the invitation and Shiro can’t turn down the chance to kiss her in their brief interlude, sighing happily at Keith’s hands skimming over her chest. She touches Shiro’s bra, so clearly wishing it were only skin, but Shiro is too content with knowing Keith is naked and open to her but Shiro is impenetrable in return. Just for now. Just while Shiro teases out the things that make Keith weak in the knees. They have time to get to everything; Shiro doesn’t want to waste every discovery on her first day.

She has to plant a hand on Keith’s shoulder and push her back to get Keith to break the kiss. They’re both panting. 

“Turn around,” Shiro says, breathless. “Sit back against me.”

Keith raises an eyebrow in confusion but she acquiesces, turning around to sit in the vee of Shiro’s thighs. Shiro has to tug at her hips for Keith to get the picture, but then they’re finally in place: Shiro sitting against the headboard with Keith leaning against her torso. From this angle, Shiro can stare down the whole length of her body, see the long, elegant sprawl of her muscled legs, the thatch of hair between her thighs that Shiro can’t wait to touch again, the way her brown nipples point away from each other when she lounges on her back like this. Shiro slides her hands up Keith’s stomach to touch her breasts. Keith’s head lolls back against Shiro’s shoulder, and maybe Shiro could risk the neck ache in the morning to kiss her at this angle.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Shiro whispers against her temple. Her prosthetic arm reaches down to grip the back of Keith’s thigh and lifts up her leg to hook it over Shiro’s knee, spreading her legs as much as possible. Keith makes a soft noise as Shiro’s fingers skim back across her inner thigh. Shiro tucks that sound away for later, imagines pulling it out again with her mouth instead.

"Fuck, Shiro," Keith whispers.

"Yeah." Shiro covers Keith's cunt with her palm, grinds the heel of her hand against her clit. "How many times do you think I can make you come before you can't take it anymore?"

Keith shudders, her hips twitching into Shiro's wet fingers sliding up to circle her clit. "I don't—I don't know."

"I'm gonna make sure we learn," Shiro promises. She smiles at the distressed sound that comes out of Keith's mouth. Nosing at the tender place just below Keith's ear, Shiro bites her. "Can I fuck you with my favorite vibrator?"

Keith startles. "Confession time," she says, and it's not fair that she already sounds this wrecked. "I have never owned a vibrator."

"Seriously?"

"Never saw the point," Keith answers. There's a line of defensiveness in her voice. "I have fingers."

And Shiro has to laugh at that because, well—it's very Keith, isn't it? Utilitarian through and through, relying on her own hands to do the work wherever possible. Shiro loves her despite it and because of it.

"I have fingers too," Shiro tells her, the appropriate amount of mocking, "but it's really fucking hot you've never done that before and now I want to fuck you with it until you cry."

Bluntness has always been a tool that works well with Keith. It's actually hilarious that Keith spent so long trying her hand at the art of subtle seduction when neither of them normally has much use for mind games of any sort, but Shiro isn't going to mince her words anymore. Honesty is powerful between them.

"Okay," Keith says, exhaling hard. She doesn't sound nervous—no, that new edge in her voice is adjacent to excitement. It might be anticipation. "Let’s try it."

Shiro splays the fingers of her left hand over Keith's stomach while her right reaches for her bedside table and pulls the vibrator out of the top drawer. It’s not a fancy toy at all, but it’s smooth and curved and tapered in the middle just the way Shiro likes it, with just three buttons to turn it on and cycle through different settings. The dark purple color is nice but not gaudy and Shiro doesn’t know why she’s mentally pitching herself a list of her vibrator’s strengths when she has Keith in her lap.

“Nothing weird or scary here,” Shiro says holding it up for Keith’s inspection.

“Looks normal,” Keith says in solemn assessment. She traces a finger along the length of it curiously but doesn’t move to hold it. “A nice, normal vibrator.”

Shiro snorts against the side of her neck. “Hush.”

Keith giggles instead, the same laugh she makes when Shiro makes a particularly good joke. It’s good to hear that sound in this context, calming a worry Shiro didn’t even know she felt. This is  _ Keith,  _ and Keith is still the same person she was yesterday—still Shiro’s best friend, still a little shit, still the light of Shiro’s life. They know each other.

“You keep saying you’re going to fuck me,” Keith says, unable to keep the sound of her smile out of her voice, “but I’m starting to question your abilities here.”

“You’re a brat and a menace,” Shiro says. She hitches up the knee keeping Keith’s leg in place, spreading her wider. Holding the vibrator in her right hand, she rubs the head of it over Keith’s clit to tease her. “And normally I’d use lube, but you’re so fucking wet for me I don’t need it, do I?”

“I’ll definitely let you take credit for that,” Keith pants. “It’s—it’s your fault.”

Shiro kisses the shell of her ear. “Every time you sass me, I want to add another minute to how long I’m gonna fuck you.”

“If only you’d  _ start _ fucking m—”

Keith goes silent with shock when Shiro presses the vibrator inside her. She’s as slick and open as Shiro predicted and she takes it like it’s nothing, except her torso shudders with overwhelmed emotion. She whimpers and sounds so beautiful.

“How’s that?” Shiro whispers. She fucks Keith shallowly, giving her a moment to get used to the shape of it inside her before it hums to life.

“Oh, god, Shiro—”

“Yeah, baby. I’m gonna turn it on now, okay?”

Keith nods eagerly, but Shiro pinches her nipple until she uses her words. “Yes, fuck yeah, Shiro,” she moans. “Don’t need to keep me in suspense, here.”

_ Menace,  _ Shiro repeats to herself. She’s creating a spoiled monster.

Keith doesn’t scream like Shiro hoped when she turns the vibrator on. Instead, it makes Keith’s entire body tense up suddenly, unsure what to do with the sensation, and she makes the tiniest little gasp of shock. For a few seconds, Keith doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe as far as Shiro can tell, and then she melts all at once. 

“Oh,” she breathes.

Shiro fucks her slowly, almost leisurely, and it makes Keith’s legs tremble. “That’s good,” Shiro whispers. “Let me hear you, baby girl.”

But for all of Keith’s earlier moaning, she doesn’t seem to have much to say anymore. Her mouth is open and uncovered but it’s like all the noise has been pulled straight out of her, leaving this warm, pliant mess of a person behind. Suddenly, Shiro needs to see her come more than anything else in the world—needs to know if it will pull sounds out of her or reduce her to utter silence as she goes over the edge, losing herself to the tide.

Her hand slides down Keith’s belly, nails scratching against Keith’s stomach lightly enough to make her abs tense. Keith jolts when Shiro rubs over her clit, moving at the same steady pace she’s fucking Keith at.

“Shiro,” Keith murmurs. “Shiro, I think—I think I’m gonna come, fuck.  _ Fuck.” _

That was fast. Shiro feels nothing but pleasure and excitement because she prides herself on being good with her hands and this is already so much more than she ever thought she would have with Keith. The chance to reduce her to a quivering mess of bliss overrides everything and Shiro fucks Keith faster. She wants to take care of Keith, to show her just how good Shiro can make her feel, and it’s one of the best things Shiro has ever done.

Keith’s back arches when she comes. Her groan is sharp and short-lived before it’s cut off somewhere in her throat, but her toes curl and her legs twitch and one of her hands lands on Shiro’s thigh and squeezes the denim of her pants hard enough to bruise the skin underneath. 

Shiro can’t even see her face and she already knows that this is the most beautiful Keith has ever looked. She is entranced.

She’s relentless in fucking Keith through her orgasm because it makes Shiro so hot to feel her fall apart so thoroughly and unrepentantly. Shiro makes Keith ride the edge of too much too soon for as long as she’ll allow it, and when Keith finally says, raw-voiced and rocky,  _ “Shiro,”  _ she gives in.

Keith sinks back against her, boneless and panting as Shiro stops fucking her and turns off the vibrator, but she continues rubbing Keith’s clit slowly, just to coax every last hint of feeling out of her.

“You see now why people want to use more than just their fingers?” Shiro asks when she can find her voice again. It’s an honest question.

“We need to do more testing,” Keith says, her voice gravelly. “Not sure if— _ oh—” _

It’s the work of a moment to flip the vibrator back on and Shiro grins at the way Keith’s whole body twists like it’s trying to get away.

“I bet,” Shiro says, voice low, “I can get you to come three times like this.”

“That’s—that’s ambitious,” Keith gasps.

“I’ll let you see my tits if you can get there.”

Keith groans, half in annoyance and half in response to Shiro turning up the intensity of the vibrations. “Fine—fine, Shiro. You’re so in-infuriating, oh my god.”

“And you love me,” Shiro whispers. The words settle just right in her chest, glowing warm and happy, and the pure joy that fills her up should be at odds to Keith squirming in her lap but it isn’t. It’s all folded together with the sound of Keith’s whimpering, her hand tracing over Shiro’s forearm before grabbing her wrist to try and drag Shiro’s fingers down to her clit. 

Shiro gives her what she wants. They have a long day ahead of them and an even longer life together.

**Author's Note:**

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